


The silence in-between

by monanotlisa



Category: Fringe
Genre: Canadian Shack, Episode Related, F/M, Partners to Lovers, Season/Series 04, Sharing Body Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:44:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/pseuds/monanotlisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your irregularly scheduled <a href="http://cesperanza.dreamwidth.org/501762.html">Canadian Shack</a> entry for <i>Fringe</i> fandom. I was thiiis close to asking Speranza to beta, since she is totally to blame. I squeezed in a few additional tropes (which I, as ever, consider features, not bugs). Finally, this story contains some plot elements and Nina Sharp, but not actually any disembodied polar bears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The silence in-between

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the Amber!verse Over Here: a little post-"Wallflower" detour.

  


"I have to confess I had expected more", Lincoln says, "after all the fanfare you decidedly didn't make."

Olivia sideways-smiles at him.

The place in front of them has a roof and walls and not much else. There's admittedly a porch made from logs, just like the structure itself. Someone (in a flight of fancy or, more likely, national pride) painted the door red and the windowpanes white.

They're the only bright splash in a muted landscape: grey sky above them, green and brown trees, mostly fir, behind the shack. There's a particular gnarly black tree that looms over the shack, casting a monochrome shadow across the crisp glint of the windows. The ground beneath their feet is hard-packed, dark amber.

She resolutely doesn't draw comparisons to the colour palette of her own wardrobe and instead jabs both index fingers at the door. "So, shall we go inside?"  


>   
> Lincoln peered up at her from under his bangs and hung file number oh-nine-three-slash-eleven down with great precision into the -- growing -- folder to the right-hand side of his desk. "Nina Sharp owns a house in Canada?" He sounded mildly interested at best, which always meant he really wanted to know more.
> 
> "That's one way to put it." Olivia closed her own file on the last page with the molecular structure of a cortexiphan precursor courtesy of Kelvin Genetics. "Nina's family is originally from Yorkshire, but they're strewn all over the Commonwealth, with holdings here and there." She kept her voice and face neutral, but she was talking to Lincoln, after all.
> 
> "So you're saying not only do they own plenty of houses; they own half of Canada?" Lincoln's eyebrows were escaping from behind the -- new, much nicer -- glasses.
> 
> Olivia felt her mouth twitch and looked down at her hands while handing him the file to put away. Their fingers brushed, briefly; she made sure to breathe evenly. "It's really more like a fifth."  
> 

  
"Not so bad on the inside though, isn't it?" Olivia wonders if it sounds apologetic to Lincoln, which is silly. She's not the owner of this house -- an owner who's AWOL. Nor is she its caretaker. Funny how she herself had, from age twelve onward, thought she had a caretaker who got the job done.

In some ways, of course Nina did. Only her fostering went above and beyond what was jotted down in the manual.

"No. Not so bad." Lincoln gives her that little half-smile of his, although it dwindles again when he sees the expression on her face. "Hey, Olivia. We'll find her."

"Sure." She bites her lip, switches her flashlight on and sweeps it in a slow, wide arc. "Not here, though. Look at the ground." She points it down.

The tip-tap of Lincoln's shoes, sturdier today than usual, comes closer, to rest just outside the circle of light: tan, not black, with rubber soles. He's putting the _field_ in _agent_ today.

"Thick layer of dust on the wooden floorboards, and no footsteps to be seen anywhere. You're right." She can feel him shift next to her. His breath stirs the strands of hair that have managed to escape the harsh regime of her scrunchy. Olivia doesn't want to move.

Lincoln reaches inside his own jacket and turns his flashlight on. "Place seems much smaller from the inside than the outside. How's that for inverse magic?"

Olivia recognises his attempts to cheer her up for what they are, but of course they still do.  
She looks into those too-innocent blue eyes behind their frames before focusing again. "The floor plan did mention a bathroom and a storage room in the back."

"Behind door number two, I presume. Wait." Olivia does, and Lincoln turns around, back toward the door, knocks against what does look like a fusebox with his free hand. "Let's try this first." He reaches inside, flicks a switch or two inside. Nothing happens.

"Impressive," Olivia says, but Lincoln's _oh, really?_ face makes her relent and reach down to turn on the table lamp, which bathes the room in weak but warm light.

"Now we can check out the place with better visibility." His words are triumphant.

He and Olivia glance at the lamp and its three-feet radius, then back at each of the two SureFire Z2s in their hands. Turning them toward the door in the back, they step forward at the same time.  


>   
> Broyles gave them a look that spoke maybe not volumes but a medium-sized tome, at least. "You really think she might have crossed the northern border?"
> 
> Olivia nodded. If it came across more decided than was strictly warranted, so be it. "We believe it's possible. Since the results came back", after Lincoln came back with them, having gone through these quiet but effective back-channels of his instead to her: her adoptive mother's daughter, "all the airports and harbours have been monitored. It's possible that even following our discovery Nina has slipped through, of course."
> 
> No need to turn her head to know Lincoln's face was doubtful, still. Everybody in this room knew the likelihood of Nina having bought her escape as easy as one of her Lanvin bags. Money was a powerful factor in getaways.
> 
> But memory was too.
> 
> "I know that place near Mare-du-Sault from her stories. She spent her childhood summers of there with an aunt she adored, a writer of French Canadian children's stories." Whose œuvre Nina did pass down to her, given the fact Rachel had never been one for books whereas Olivia devoured and cherished them. Right there, talking about them, she could almost see the gilded pages in her mind's eye again: full of images and words about _Pascal L'Elephant (avec son parapluie)_.
> 
> Lincoln exhaled, softly but audible, and Olivia continued. "It wasn't a large place at all, only a few amenities." As not to distract from the writing process when little Nina wasn't visiting, but that was neither here nor there nor now. "But I have reason to believe that even if she isn't there, something that might tell us more is."
> 
> Broyles steepled his hands and leaned forward in his chair. "Pray tell, Agent Dunham."  
> 

  
"A hundred happy things." He flicks open an engraved mahogany box on the cluttered middle shelf with his thumb, stroking it once over folded blue silk inside. "But they're not the droids we're looking for."

Olivia's disappointed too, but Lincoln's frown covers his whole face. Much like the cobwebs. Olivia grins and before she's thought it through, puts down the woven basked full of Quill and Quire magazines and reaches up, gently removing dusty-sticky strands. He holds still for this exercise, and although his eyes would be protected by his glasses anyway, they flutter shut for a half-second when the tips of her fingers graze his skin, just above the arc of his cheekbone.

Olivia swallows. "All gone." Why has her voice dropped a register?

"Thanks," he says, and at least his has too. Olivia notes again that they're almost the same height. She wouldn't have to crane her neck, and he wouldn't have to bend down if -- if he were up for it, which she's none too sure about, given that he's shot her down and she stood him up even though of course at that moment there had only been a whole lot of lying down, unconscious on her apartment floor.

Outside, there's a croaking sound, and Olivia's nerves spark; Lincoln visibly jumps. They've seen too many monsters to not be wary, but in this case, when Olivia opens the little back door out into the cold, it's only a raven that tilts its head and peers at them.

"Weird," Lincoln says, and the bird croaks again, spreads its huge dark wings and takes flight...if slowly, circling the porch twice before gliding over towards that large tree just around the corner of the shack that she can only see the branches of. "Do you think that was an omen?"

"Do you believe in omens?" Olivia doesn't, and she doesn't think Lincoln with his analyst background would. Then again, it's not hard to take a guess at his response.

"I don't even know what I believe these days, Olivia." He gives her what wants to be a smile, and she thinks of shapeshifters found and family lost weighing down the corners of his mouth. "But I know that whatever happened," and he doesn't say: _to Robert_ , "Nina Sharp holds the keys to the truth."

"And this place will tell us how to find her." Olivia shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket because they're freezing, just like her nose and ears. She is sure of what she just said; she just doesn't know why. These days she can always blame the cortexiphan, of course.

"Maybe it's not inside the house," Lincoln says, pulling up the zipper of his parka, but that's when first snowflakes hit, courtesy of a gust of icy wind. His face scrunches up. "Pretty dark all of a sudden. What's happening?"

Olivia looks up at the sky blackening at the same time that the rocks and stones and trees are being dusted with white. "My educated guess is: snowstorm."  


>   
> Her seat just didn't tilt backwards, much as Olivia tried. A little too strongly, perhaps, because there were some dark mutterings from the passenger in the seat behind her. In German. She considered telling him in her most polite voice, "Entschuldigen Sie, dass ich nur das versuche, was Sie bereits bei Ihrem Hintermann gemacht haben."
> 
> "Want to switch seats?" Lincoln didn't smirk, but it was clearly a close thing. "After all the not-sleeping I've been doing, I'm not going to start during the brief second leg from Toronto to Québec."
> 
> Olivia slumped into her seat, at least as much as that was possible, and glanced at him. "Thanks, but I'll be fine. I can go over the file again."
> 
> "Sure. Because as they say, tenth time is the charm." His expression wasn't mocking, though. He looked at her with a sympathy she wasn't sure she needed, let alone wanted. "We have procured the floor plan --"
> 
> "Astrid has hacked the respective database, you mean."
> 
> "-- and an off-road rental car with GPS is ready for us at the airport. Peter muttered something about having known a guy who knew a girl whose cousin could have gotten us into the forest via helicopter for a negotiable price, in the other time-line."
> 
> "Well, in this one Broyles is keeping him from international travel, at least for now."
> 
> "The thing is, Olivia -- whatever, whomever we find there, until we reach the place, there's not much we can do. Except..." Lincoln trailed off.
> 
> "Except what?"
> 
> "You could tell me why a woman like Nina Sharp would draw a map with markers of all her secret, favourite places all over the world and hide it away yet be likely to return to one of them. She just doesn't seem very," Lincoln looked down, frowned, "sentimental. Nostalgic."
> 
> Olivia took in his profile, perfectly framed by the window behind Lincoln's head. "She was a girl once, too." Young, certainly, but now Olivia wasn't so sure about that head full of dreams Nina had been talking about. And still, not everything could have been a lie. Olivia had been sifting through the memories in her mind, separating the strands, ever since the revelation. Olivia's genesis -- and that is exactly what it was now, wasn't it? -- was a web of half-truths at best. But Nina's own story?
> 
> "I think she's always had her reasons. Not all of them kind."
> 
> Lincoln studied her for a moment, silent until he was not. "You are, though -- to say that about her, after all of this." From under her lashes, Olivia could see him lift his hand from his lap where it was resting on the blue airline blanket, as if to reach out and cover her own hand closed so tightly around the armrest...before thinking better of it and dropping it again.
> 
> Okay, then.  
> 

  
They've closed and locked the doors behind them, and just in time. Olivia thinks it's more likely that the howling comes from the storm than a faraway wolf-pack, but then again, these is the Québecois wilderness. Either way, it's much safer inside the house.

"It doesn't have central heating?"

"Lincoln, it's a _shack_."

He takes off his glasses and polishes them, gently, with the blue silk handkerchief he's been carrying around since he took it in the storage room, and who does that? Lincoln, obviously, her partner. Who's looking at her, eyes squinted. In theory, that should make him look ugly. "You did tell me it was a shack. I just assumed you were being your usual laconic self."

There's that. Olivia thinks of Astrid and her therapist, of Nina's -- now certainly less than honest -- surprise at Olivia's question regarding her emotional state of mind. Perhaps it's better to focus on their physical state. "We just need to stay put through the snowstorm -- there were no warnings, so it can't be long."

Lincoln puts his glasses back on and takes in their surroundings, in full analytical mode. "What did Nina say her aunt did to get through the winter?"

"Spend it on the Côte d'Azur." She can see Lincoln is trying to parse whether that's a joke before deciding, rightly so, that it's not. "Nina never came here in winter, although she mentioned once that Northern Canadian houses often have emergency provisions."

Lincoln's face brightens so much Olivia has to laugh, herself. "Food? I'm pretty handy in a kitchen."

"In the kitchen cabinets, presumably." Or, well, in the cabinets of what doubles as a kitchen; it's the far end of the living room, basically. While Lincoln rummages around in them, making pleased little sounds at each can of what looks like _boeuf stroganoff_ \-- sounds that make it hard to concentrate -- Olivia makes sure to turn on every light. With each lamp for the table, sideboard, kitchen counter, armchair, windowsills and bookshelves, she manages to makes the place look a little less like a refuge. So light and food they have, but she's still stumped. It's definitely getting cold in the main room.

"There is an open chimney but no wood. I guess we could go outside and look for an axe, a chopping block, and a decent-sized fir." Olivia looks out of the window -- into a flurry of white pushing against the panes and making them rattle in their hinges. Perhaps it's the disembodied but still hungry ghost of a polar bear. Or perhaps she has been with Fringe Division for too long -- the forests of Québec hardly even get grizzlies these days. She does wonder what Walter would do. Probably within fifteen minutes rig them a radiator that could heat them all up for fifteen years. Astrid would also be great now, as ever; while she doesn't always know everything, she can always, always figure things out.

"Well, there's no shortage of blankets." Lincoln's face appears from behind one of the bottom cabinet doors. "I've found some here, one big and fluffy and a thinner one, plus a quilt. Maybe we can use them instead." Indeed, there's a pile of them, carefully wrapped in plastic bags even.

Lincoln must have stuck his head inside those nooks and crannies. His hair is tousled in alternate-universe ways that give her a pang. "I don't know about you, but my desire to brave the elements is pretty limited." He gives her the smile she thinks of, unreasonably, as hers and hers alone. "Although I'm perfectly willing to be a manly man with a big axe and face a hapless tree if you need me to be."

Olivia laughs, not because the image is funny but because Lincoln would do it -- he'd quirk his mouth and make a bone-dry comment before squaring his shoulders and walking out into the storm. "No need. You're right; we can --" and the thing is they can, and it may not be the best idea, but it's also not the worst because he brought it up, "-- make up the fold-out couch, use blankets below and above and warm up inside until the storm dies down."

"Slumber party with Olivia Dunham. I confess that's not how I'd envisioned my evening going." Lincoln looks away, then, and his voice is soft. "Better than the alternatives, though." He can't seem to stop smiling either, although he's rubbing his hands now. When he blows on them, his breath comes in a white puff.

Even the bathroom of sorts is icy-cold when Olivia goes, splashing water barely above freezing into her face. It's weirdly welcome; she's not feeling particularly cold at the moment, although she knows that sitting still in the falling temperatures in the den now would quickly give her hypothermia. She stares into the mirror for a moment, trying to figure out whether she knows the woman in it. What is she doing? What is Lincoln doing?

Building a pillow fort on the sofa-turned-bed, it turns out, or at least that's what it looks like. "Olivia," he says, and just looks at her for a moment. Without the glasses (put so neatly on the reading table) he looks, absurdly, younger and a little naked. Not like Captain Lee, which is a relief. This Lincoln Lee is his own person.

"You can go to the bathroom, I'll just --" her throat is dry, and Lincoln's gaze is too unfiltered like this. Her gaze drops to the blankets: thin one below, then the fluffy one. The quilt on top. It's the only sensible set-up. It's also just one blanket for both of them.

"I'll know where to find you." He smiles but also glances away.

Olivia ignores her hammering heart and burrows deeply into the covers. This is idiotic; she hasn't been a teenager for almost half her life now. And yet. When Lincoln comes back and flicks off the lights, one by one, in a narrowing circle bringing him ever-closer to the bed, she watches him. The long lines of his body, his arms. His face, ever-expressive.

He turns around and takes that last step. The bed dips, and there he is, tumbling under the sheets. "Hi," Lincoln says, and he says it as if there's not quite enough oxygen in the air. He pulls at the blanket with unsteady hands, covers them both with it and the quilt too. Safely underneath, he shuffles closer inch by tiny inch, turning onto his side, just like her. Turning towards her. Olivia looks away from his mouth, but his eyes aren't any better, almost green in the golden light from the one remaining lamp on the windowsill. "Are you okay, Olivia? Not too cold?"

Not even remotely. "No." But her brain doesn't have to kick in; it's always running at full speed to begin with. "Still better to keep ourselves covered and warm."

Lincoln nods, very carefully. "I...agree." He moves, a little, and his cargo-panted knee bumps hers. Olivia jumps, and Lincoln whispers, "Sorry," and start to scoot backwards, but Olivia has had enough; he either wants this or he doesn't and she really can't take it anymore.

She reaches out, across the tiny space between them, and curls her hand around his arm, his shoulder. He stills. "Lincoln," she says, enunciating each word clearly, "maybe it's best to keep each other warm."

Lincoln shivers, then, and for a moment he closes his eyes. "Oh, thank God, Olivia," and he manages a smile before leaning in, rolling gently forward. They are already sharing a blanket; he's here, right here with her. Lincoln reaches up to cup her face. His hands are chilly, but his lips are warm and welcome on hers, and his mouth tastes like pepper and spices and what must be him and him alone. She shivers, pressing closer and into him. His body feels hot and wonderful against her, hotter still when she hooks one leg around his hips. It occurs to her this is not the best time or place to get naked, but it's definitely what she wants, and she gasps into his mouth when he curls one hand into the small of her back to pull her closest. "Please, Lincoln," she whispers, and he gets her because he laughs, a private little sound, and gently rolls her onto her back. "Like this? Because we can; you can --"; "This is fine, c'mon," and her fingers are tugging at his button, lower his zipper. His turn to gasp and buck into her, and okay, they're definitely getting somewhere, notably the vicinity of her own pants too, which Lincoln is opening with considerably less grace than he usually displays. "Take them off," he says, and then they both manage to do that while not misplacing the blanket above them, and he kisses her again, hot and fast and a little desperate, strong fingers sliding across her thighs and between them, touching her where she's wet and aching. His pants are open too, finally, and he's thick between her fingers, just perfectly sized. "Olivia," he says, and shoves himself hard into her hand, propping himself up, positioning himself. He catches her eyes. Stunned wonder in his, and she knows she looks the same. When he enters her, draws back, and enters her again, she can't keep in a small sound at every slow, sweet slide of his cock inside her. He reaches down, not quite steady yet stable enough even on one arm. The gun callouses on his thumb catch her clit just so, and Olivia moans into his mouth and trembles and trembles and trembles.

 

Olivia wakes with a start to the smell of _boeuf stroganoff_. Bright light is filtering through the windows -- of course; the reflection of the snow. She rubs her eyes. Her hands smell like Lincoln, like her. She likes that.

"Hi," she hears, and extricates herself from under the pile of blankets. Lincoln must have tucked her in tight when he got up, and that makes her smile too.

"Hi yourself." She tosses off the blanket but wraps the quilt around her mostly-clothed body.

Lincoln is standing by the stove, cheerfully, meticulously stirring the stew in a pot. He's likewise back in all his layers, and his hair looks as he found a brush somewhere in that storage too. Even his glasses are clean. He is, she thinks, just the kind of person who even after a night of escaping hypothermia and also having hot sex would still look neat. Or maybe again. "Sorry for the repetitiveness of the food. I usually make much better breakfast."

His smile makes up for the lack of sun, and more. He puts the big wooden spoon down and wipes his hand on -- Olivia doesn't even want to know where he found a kitchen towel, but there it is.

And there he is, making a step toward her. It's not strictly halfway, but she does meet him. His arms come around her without hesitation, hold her tight. His mouth tastes like the toothpaste he must have found only this morning, in better light and not trembling from the cold. His own flavour underneath is a lot more interesting. She curls her fingers into the lapels of his shirt and pulls him even closer.

Breathing matters, though; eventually she pulls back with a laugh. "Okay."

He too inhales harshly, but his smile is soft. "Yeah. I definitely couldn't have ever expected anything better from this Canadian shack."

She has to look away because it's strange and wonderful and a lot to take in; it'll be a lot to deal with when they get back. There's a world outside this shack, after all, and one that still hides Nina Sharp -- _wait_. "Lincoln, look at that."

It takes him the fraction of a millisecond to get it, to focus. "What, Olivia?" He follows her line of sight, out of the kitchen window.

"See that tree?"

"Large...black...tree. Yes." He touches the frame of his glasses, absently adjusts them. "Isn't that the tree the raven landed on yesterday?"

"The same." She'd dwell on that, only there's something more pressing. "And halfway up, between the roots and the first little branch?"

"A -- a knothole. Oh. _Oh_!"

"Exactly."

It takes Olivia five seconds to slip into her shoes, and about ten more pushing through snow drifts to reach the old tree. The hole is not far from the ground, with the slight elevation beneath. It's the perfect height for a tall child, or a young teen to reach into.

Olivia bends her knees a little, does the same, and pulls out a silken bag. It is barely damp.

"Open it," Lincoln says, and on the conveniently located tree trunk -- snow hastily brushed off -- Olivia opens it, looks at the paper, browned but crisp. Readable after so many years. It looks like a world map, only the shape is different.

"It's a map of the world, yes; only it's peeled off a terrestrial globe. This is why it's so sturdy," Lincoln says, fingers stroking over a corner with infinite care. "Maybe she spun it, searching for her favourites. Added these little crosses for them with black fountain pen -- here, and here. There too. Maybe threw little notes with her written-down dreams inside the globe."

Olivia looks down at Nina's map, at Lincoln's hands tracing the lines she must have drawn too, a long time ago. "You think we'll find her with this?"

He looks at her. "With Walter and Peter and Astrid connecting the dots? We will find her, and find out the rest."

About the trials and the cortexiphan, about the shapeshifters. Olivia folds the map back into its pouch and nods at him. "We will."

 

~la fin

  


**Author's Note:**

> 1.  
> Beta thanks to Samjohnsson, who was drafted rather abruptly, to say the least, but did a fantastic job in a short amount of time. I know it's a stock phrase, but all remaining mistakes and linguistic oddities are entirely my own.
> 
> 2.  
> Yeah, so. Intersections of canon and crackfic are where I live half the time (but it ain't always pretty there).
> 
> 3.  
> To my Canadians friends, especially the Francophone ones: please don't hit me. To all: Catch the shout-outs, and I'll write you a drabble.


End file.
